


The Usual Wear and Tear

by the_dala



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Comfort Sex, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:29:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_dala/pseuds/the_dala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The uniform fits him perfectly, of course - Jim is vain enough that he took it to the tailor three times before he was satisfied. McCoy suspects he'll look just as good in gold, the smug bastard.</i>
</p>
<p>McCoy gets Kirk out of his uniform, then back into it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Usual Wear and Tear

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving my old Star Trek fic from LiveJournal - this was originally published May 23rd, 2009 (and has a slight continuity error with the costume changes if that sort of thing bothers you).

It was unthinkable that he’d never administered a sedative to Jim Kirk before; God knew there had been instances where it would have come in handy. Jim’s dalliance with that Bolian ensign came to mind, or the red-haired townie with the prize-fighter boyfriend, or every time he passed Cadet Uhura in the hallways (one of these days she was going to inject him with something her own self, McCoy was pretty sure, and it wasn’t going to be anything resembling mild).

Some corner of his brain was filing away the amount of the dosage, Jim’s instantaneous reaction to it, the drop in his pulse and temperature. Out loud, he muttered, “Unbelievable” as he stalked off to find a set of off-duty clothing. He introduced himself to the pretty nurse Jim had somehow been cognizant enough to flirt with on the way in; she raised an eyebrow at the unconscious cadet but pointed him to a cabinet.

He was still grumbling under his breath as he tugged at the collar of Jim’s dress uniform. Mostly at himself, since it hadn’t even been Jim’s fault this time – well, technically it was still his fault because he’d been stupid enough to sabotage the Kobayashi Maru and get himself grounded in the first place, not to mention making an enemy out of the _Enterprise’s_ first officer. McCoy knew him well enough to understand that he’d been making a point about the futility of forcing cadets to sit through an inevitable loss. He also didn’t much care. As Jim’s roommate and, the Academy was only too aware, closest confidante and partner in crime, it would have been his ass on the line too if he’d figured out what Jim was planning.

Except he hadn’t. Because Jim had come back early from the women’s dorms last night, giddy over his impending victory – not that McCoy had realized it at the time. He’d also come back hard and reeking of Gaila’s flowery perfume. It had proved a distracting combination

He kept his touch light and professional as he peeled the stiff sleeves down Jim’s pliant arms. It wasn’t exactly the first time McCoy had undressed him, conscious or otherwise. The previous night he hadn’t bothered with a shirt after being thrown out, so there was nothing but flushed skin under his hands as Jim pushed him back on the bed. He’d almost thrown Jim into the shower, but there was that rich, dark undertone to his scent that had captivated humanoid males across the galaxy. And anyway, he didn’t have the greatest track record for resisting Jim’s charms even when he knew better – case in point being this little romp through Starfleet regulations.

Jim stirred faintly at McCoy’s hands on his waist. Of course he did.

“Predictable bastard,” he murmured, biting his lip against a smile and ignoring a sharp look from the curious nurse. He slid Jim’s pants down over his hips, mentally reciting symptoms of various diseases to keep himself from remembering those legs wrapped around him just a few hours ago. It was a rare thing to see Jim Kirk this still. Usually he had more energy than a toddler hopped up on sugar. He was in constant motion when awake and even restless in sleep; when they shared a bed McCoy frequently woke up in a headlock with his limbs numb because Jim had clambered all over him during the night.

There was a certain vulnerability about him now, stretched out in his briefs on a medical bunk. His breathing was still deep and even; he should be out cold for another twenty minutes or so, enough time for McCoy to find Dr. Puri and explain what a disciplinary case was doing aboard the shiny new flagship. It was for damned sure not going to be McCoy’s finest moment in the service. Not for the first time, he wondered how his career might have turned out had there been another open seat on the way out of Bumfuck, Iowa (other than the bathroom, of course, and he’d still been bitter about it when Jim slept with that officer a few months later). If he hadn’t shot his mouth off to the only other person not in uniform; if Jim hadn’t looked at him with those bright eyes, decided McCoy was the one fucker on the shuttle crazier than himself and then hung on like an oversexed limpet for the next three years…

McCoy sighed and lifted Jim’s arms, fumbling them into the black shirt. He was stuck with the kid, for good or for ill. At least Jim couldn't cause any more trouble while he was knocked out.

 

 

 

Much later, when that damned Scotsman has somehow gotten the _Enterprise_ to beat her way out of a black hole, McCoy finally has the chance to catch up on paperwork. It’s never been his favorite part of the day, but for the moment it affords him a chance to take a badly-needed breather. No one is currently hemorrhaging, seizing, or being cut open on his operating tables; he asked Nurse Chapel to disturb him only in an emergency. And for fuck’s sake, they’ve got to have filled their quota of emergencies for awhile yet.

It takes him a few minutes to navigate through Dr. Puri’s labyrinthine file system. He locates Captain Pike’s record first – it’s only fitting – but finds he can barely type a few words. His fingers cramp on _irreversible nerve damage_. Hastily he erases what little he’s written and opens Kirk, James Tiberius. The litany of treatments administered under the heading “Diseases, Conditions and Injuries Related to Sexual Contact/Activity” (which isn’t even half the real total, considering how many times McCoy treated him off the record) would usually prove diverting, but he scrolls down to generate a new entry.

 

_Stardate 2258.42-2258.44_

_Patient sustained numerous injuries aboard USS Enterprise (coincident with first mission); on mining equipment approximately 1000 meters above surface of Vulcan; and on Class M planet Delta Vega. Injuries incurred were largely superficial, consisting of lacerations on the face and hands and contusions on the body. One facial laceration of approximately four centimeters’ length required seven stitches, administered and monitored by Enterprise medical staff. Patient also suffered several attempts at asphyxiation, resulting in moderate bruising and discoloration around the neck and throat. Due to limited supplies, a small amount of topical anesthetic ointment was judged sufficient to mitigate discomfort._

 

Jim got off easy, all things considered. Saving a copy in the _Enterprise’s_ own log, he clicks on the “Known Allergies” tab – hopefully this will prove irrelevant in the future, but knowing Jim, he’s not holding his breath.

 

_Medical allergies: standard-issue vaccine preventing infection from Melvaran mud fleas. Induces swelling in extremities, particularly severe in the hands._

 

McCoy briefly considers elaborating on exactly how this allergy was diagnosed, but ultimately decides that information is not medically relevant. He's actually made the first entry in this section of the file. For a man who acquires cuts and bruises like a dog picks up fleas, Jim’s remarkably healthy in his natural, non-brawling, non-space-diving, non-pissing-off-grieving-Vulcans state.

McCoy stares at the screen until his eyes start to water. Finally he types one last addition to Jim’s medical file.

 

_Slight resistance to standard Federation-issue sedatives; mild doses have approximately 70% efficacy rate compared to identical dosage in a human male of equivalent weight and standard of health._

 

Four minutes. Jim woke up four minutes early, which he didn’t even note as unusual at the time.

All the talk of alternate realities and time portals gives McCoy a headache, but even he has spent some time tallying all the ‘what ifs’ that could have resulted in a completely different outcome on the _Enterprise’s_ maiden voyage. This one just happens to be his personal favorite. Jim was too damned stubborn to obey the laws of science and medicine, and it saved all their lives.

“Doctor, I’m sorry, but the acting captain –” Christine Chapel purses her lips as Jim pushes past her into his office.

“It’s all right, Nurse,” he says, nodding to her. He hopes she won’t hold it against him, as her competence has made her a considerable asset. Jim shoots her a wink over his shoulder and she rolls her eyes. No worries there, then.

He exits the medical record log as Jim comes over and perches on the edge of the desk. He’s got that trademark cocky grin on his face, but his shoulders aren’t quite square and his hands rub restlessly over his thighs. McCoy leans back in the chair, stretching his aching back. He understands; he’s coming down from it all, too.

“Something you needed, Captain?”

“We’re about to dock,” says Jim, unnecessarily, as Chekov made the announcement a couple of minutes ago. “Thought I’d change back into my uniform, if you’ve still got it lying around.”

McCoy puts his hands on Jim’s knees to pull himself to his feet. “It’ll be a little wrinkled, but I didn’t use if for a tourniquet or anything.” Jim stays on the desk while he retrieves the uniform – folded neatly, thanks to a member of staff who may or may not still be alive. It never occurred to him that Jim wouldn’t put on a gold shirt at the earliest opportunity. Pike’s back on the ship, sure, but he’s hardly capable of manning the bridge.

Jim’s still sitting there when he returns, staring down at his feet on the floor. His face is pale under the marks, under the unforgiving sick bay lighting. But true to form, he holds his arms over his head, looking at McCoy expectantly.

“I’m your CMO, not your valet,” McCoy grumbles even as he runs his hands under the hem of the grubby black shirt, up the battered ribs, brushing a nipple with his thumb. Jim leans into the touch, eyes closed. McCoy knows it’s only exhaustion that makes his lids look bruised, but he still wants to order Jim straight to bed. And then maybe crawl in next to him and sleep for a week. “You want me to lace your corset for you, too?”

“We can play dress up later, Bones,” says Jim without opening his eyes. He slides his legs apart and tugs McCoy’s hips forward. McCoy would make a smart remark back, but he’s unnerved by Jim’s weird mood and goes to kiss him instead. Jim reaches up to card his fingers through McCoy’s hair, fingers tightening at the back of his skull.

They don’t have a lot of time, so McCoy goes for his fly. Jim leans back on one arm to give him easier access, panting slightly, eyes already glazed. He pushes McCoy’s head down with his free hand. Not needing the hint, McCoy nips the inside of his thigh in retribution. Jim’s snort of laughter gets cut off by a moan as McCoy’s mouth closes around his cock.

He swirls his tongue around the head before sliding his lips down, one hand twisting at the base with the other braced against the desk. No time for finesse: he sucks hard and prays Nurse Chapel won’t come back to chuck the captain out. Fortunately Jim is trying to be quiet, although small hungry noises escape his clamped lips to make McCoy’s own cock twitch in response.

There’s something gratifying about knowing someone else’s body like you know your own, knowing what he likes well enough to bring him off in two minutes flat. Not that Jim’s sex drive is all that complex, but still – McCoy pulls back a little and presses his tongue to the sensitive vein on the underside of Jim’s cock, using just the hint of teeth on top. Jim trembles and hisses out a curse and comes in his mouth, just when he expected. He swallows too quickly to taste it.

Jim’s knuckles are white where they clutch the edge of the desk. McCoy moves back up his body, erection now fairly insistent. He can take care of it himself if it’s absolutely necessary, but no one’s come looking yet. They have some time left.

“Bones,” Jim whispers, and he looks fond but a little bit lost. “C’mere.” Kissing the corner of McCoy’s mouth, Jim pulls his cock free from his boxers and squeezes gently. His grip is warm and just tight enough. He’s good at this too, this thing they fall into when they’ve had a few and it’s too much effort to look elsewhere. Truth be told, it’s pretty much always too much effort for McCoy – that’s about the only thing he did get in the divorce.

He lets his face fall against Jim’s sweaty neck as Jim strokes him. All the adrenaline and tension seems to drain out of his body into Jim’s hand, leaving him so blessedly relaxed that he is surprised when orgasm takes him. He breathes Jim's name, in and then out. They’re leaning against each other so that if either gave an inch, they’d both topple over.

Jim’s hand fists in his shirt.

“What if they take it away?” Jim’s breath is hot against his ear. “What if I step off this ship and I go back to being Cadet Kirk – impressive potential, eternal fuck-up?” His voice is bitter.

McCoy is so unaccustomed to anything other than Jim Kirk’s complete faith in himself that he literally can’t get a word out. His only thought is that it’s highly unlikely an academic file would actually use the term “fuck-up.”

“I don’t know what my life is supposed to be if I can’t do all those things he showed me…”

“Who?” McCoy frowns against his jaw. “What things did who show you? Did Nero do something to you on that monstrosity he called a ship?” His skin is still crawling at the slug he’d extracted from Pike’s brainstem, but it never occurred to him to scan Jim because Jim hadn’t mentioned any –

Jim shakes his head, impatient. “No. Nothing like that. Forget it, it’s not important.” He pushes against McCoy’s shoulder, but McCoy doesn’t budge.

He takes Jim’s face in one hand to keep him from moving. Jim’s eyes are still clouded and he squirms under McCoy’s gaze.

“It doesn’t matter what your life is supposed to be,” he says fiercely. “ _Was_ supposed to be. You took command of a ship and crew, and you saved a Federation planet from annihilation.” Jim flinches, obviously thinking of Vulcan, but McCoy won’t let him go that easy. “If Starfleet doesn’t immediately bow down and kiss your feet, so fucking what? They’ll learn.”

He subsides, breathing a little heavily. Never knew he had that in him – never figured Jim would need to hear it. Still, it’s the truth. He’d rather have Jim Kirk on his side than pretty much anyone else. He doubts there’s a soul aboard now who wouldn’t say the same, even that green-blooded hobgoblin who tried to string him up a couple of days ago. The admirals will debate and scold and grumble, of course. But in the end they’ll realize what kind of captain they’ve got, even though they got him in a trial by fire rather than through conventional cultivation.

Jim is staring at him, that frightening flash of uncertainty already fading from his eyes. “Shit, Bones,” he says, leaning back so he can shimmy the rest of the way out of his pants. “I can use that to defend myself, but I think the blowjob might count as evidence too.”

“Asshole,” McCoy retorts, lobbing the crimson uniform shirt at his head. "I hope they do expel you."

Jim just grins at him and continues dressing. When he's finished he stands straight-backed, chin up, blue eyes vivid against the red fabric. He fixes McCoy with a serious expression and a slightly raised eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Is that your Captain Face? Because you look kind of constipated."

Jim pouts, almost as attractively as he'd like to think. "You're just jealous because I'm prettier than you."

"Yeah, it keeps me up at night," McCoy snorts, shaking his head in mock despondence. He tugs an epaulet straight and pauses, palm resting on Jim's shoulder. He always looks a little older in formal dress, which is a definite advantage right now. The uniform fits him perfectly, of course - Jim is vain enough that he took it to the tailor three times before he was satisfied. McCoy suspects he'll look just as good in gold, the smug bastard.

Jim reaches up to close his fingers over McCoy's wrist, somehow holding his somber expression though his eyes are warm.

He gets the idea that they look embarrassingly like a statue at a war memorial, standing there all silent and stoic. Soon enough Chekov's anxious voice comes over the communicators, asking if Jim is ready to begin docking preparations.

Jim takes a breath and slaps him on the arm. "Okay, I have to go be captain now. Are you coming?"

"In a minute," McCoy says. He watches Jim walk away, knowing he'll probably pick his slouch up again once he's in that stupid chair. He does like to drape himself all over what he feels is his. But McCoy wouldn't want him any other way; and neither will Starfleet, once they learn to live with him. Might not be easy, but in his opinion those admirals could do with having their comfortably-padded asses shaken up a little. At least it'll never get boring, chasing Jim around from star system to star system.

McCoy's a doctor, not a philosopher. He's never put much stock in destiny, nor felt the need to sit around chewing the fat about what fate has in store. After three years, about the only thing he would say he believes in is Jim Kirk's ability to make life in general more interesting.

 

 


End file.
